Every Dog Has Its Day
by Oubliette14
Summary: Killian Jones, owner and operator of Storybrooke's only doggy daycare, spends most of his days talking to dogs. And quite honestly, he prefers it that way. Or does he? [One-shot CS modern AU]


_**Monday.**_

Standing in his fenced yard with the summer sun beating down on his already sweaty t-shirt, Killian holds out his hand and waits for the hyperactive Border Collie in front of him to relinquish the mangled tennis ball.

A muffled yap sounds from the black and white beast's mouth, and the dog jumps excitedly in the air, running three tight circles around Killian before yapping again, ball still firmly squashed between his teeth.

"Come on, Bean, you know the bloody drill – I can't very well throw it when you're still holding onto the damn thing."

The dog barks at him again and Killian shakes his head, turning his attention to the lumbering, old Golden Retriever who watches the chaos from beneath the shade of a towering oak. An oversized water bowl sits next to her, and all she has to do for a drink is lift her head and flop sideways. "You're a smart lass, Goldie," he mutters under his breath, reaching for the battery-powered poop and scooper that hangs from a hook on the fence.

Killian doubts that the people who label his job cute, easy, or any other variety of terribly inaccurate (and frankly insulting) terms, have the slightest idea how many times he picks up dog shite each day.

Cleaning up another three piles – _he swears they multiply_ – Killian is almost bowled over by Copper and Napoleon on his way to rescue Pongo from being humped into the ground.

Percy, an overweight Pug, nips at the heels of a dainty Cocker Spaniel named Lady, and Killian shouts in their direction –

"Bloody hell, Perce, you obnoxious flea, leave her alone!"

– wondering if he would still be in business if his clients had the slightest clue what he calls their dogs in their absence.

A loud chime sounds in the backyard, signaling that someone has arrived at his front door to drop off another dog. The dogs know the sound well, barking in excitement, and Killian shouts over them in an effort to be heard. "That's probably Cruiser," he announces to the group, trying _not_ to imagine what Archie might have to say about the fact that he speaks to four-legged beasts far more often than he ever does their human counterparts. "Do try not to dump the water, eat your own shite, or hump each other – _aye, Zeus, you bloody horndog, I'm looking at you_ – until I return."

Grabbing the tablet from its charging dock next the door, Killian powers on the screen as he heads inside. The video feed of the backyard loads as he passes the bank of kennels, and he groans in aggravation as he watches Duke (rather appropriately dubbed "the destroyer") upend the supposedly untippable water bowl.

Resisting the urge to turn around and go give the daft yellow Labrador a piece of his mind, Killian continues through the small kitchen with a groan. "Bloody anarchy the moment I leave."

He almost trips over dog toys twice on his way to the front door, and as he makes his way through the house, he attempts to figure out how, in middle of the summer when adults are on vacation and kids are out of school, he ends up being busier than ever. One of these days he's going to have to find time to vacuum the main floor, rid it of fur tumbleweeds, and mop up the paw prints. That likely won't happen until Belle, his sole employee, returns from vacation, though.

At least, he reasons, his living quarters reside primarily on the second floor, and as such, don't suffer the same daily dog traffic that the main floor housing his business does.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Killian sets the tablet on the desk next to the front entrance and pulls open the door, expecting to greet either David or Mary Margaret.

David is Storybrooke's sheriff, and five years ago when Killian was new to town and just building his business, the strapping sheriff found a young German Shepherd pup pissing on the front left wheel of his police cruiser. Dave had come to him for help with training, unable to convince his girlfriend, Mary Margaret, that they should give up the pup. It took three long weeks to housebreak the dog, and when Mary Margaret vetoed the name Pisser, Cruiser stuck instead. Now the couple are recently married, and Cruiser is one of Killian's favourite four-legged guests.

But when Killian opens the door, there's no David, and there's no Mary Margaret. There's just a harried blonde woman tangled up in Cruiser's leash trying desperately not to spill her coffee. And though Killian has only seen her around town the odd time in passing, the badge at her hip identifies her immediately as Emma Swan. She's David's deputy, and currently, Killian remembers, acting sheriff while Dave is out of town on his honeymoon.

He'd forgotten all about it. Mary Margaret had called last week to remind him that they'd have a friend drop Cruiser off and pick him up while they were away. The raven-haired whirlwind had paid the bill ahead of time, adding a hefty gratuity with the explanation that the hours might not be ideal.

So this must be the mysterious Emma Swan, Killian muses, trying to recall a time when they've been introduced in some manner or another. He comes up empty, though, and realizes quickly that she's still standing in the late morning heat, waiting exasperatedly for him to do something other than stare.

"Killian Jones," he says in introduction. "You must be Dave and Mary Margaret's friend-"

"-Emma Swan, yeah," she finishes for him, "and I mean, obviously I know who you are, wouldn't be dropping the dog here otherwise." She sighs and steps over the leash. "Look, can you just take him before he finds a way to tie my ankles together? I'm kind of in a hurry here," she twists her wrist at an odd angle to look at her watch, "and crap, I'm seriously late."

Spinning awkwardly, she manages to untangle herself. Throwing the leash at him, she's halfway to her car before she looks back and says, "I should be back for him by seven. If something comes up, I'll call."

And then, before he can get a word in edgewise, she's gone in a rush of blonde hair and blinding yellow paint.

Shaking his head, Killian closes the door and regards the normally well-behaved dog with a raised eyebrow. Cruiser sits perfectly still now, innocent as can be, his head tilted attentively in Killian's direction.

"Doesn't appear that she's much of a dog person, is she, mate?"

The dog barks in affirmation, whining quietly until Killian unhooks his leash. Picking up the tablet, Killian follows the German Shepherd to the backyard, and as he rights the overturned water bowl, he wonders if perhaps he can change that.

 _ **Tuesday.**_

Emma Swan shows up late again.

Rain continues to pour from the heavens as it has for most of the night, and thunder rumbles loudly as a gust of wind turns her umbrella inside out, snapping the metal stretchers free from bright yellow nylon.

Throwing the useless contraption to the floor, Emma forces her way inside and out of the deluge. She holds no leash, and when he looks past her drenched form to the yellow Bug parked in his driveway, Cruiser sits shaking in the passenger seat.

"I think you may have forgotten someone in the car, love."

"No shit, Sherlock," Emma grumbles sarcastically, rolling her lovely green eyes at him. "Did you know dogs could be scared of thunder?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Because I didn't, and he spent all night in bed with me panting and shaking. Then he didn't want to eat this morning. _Then_ he didn't want to get in the car. _Now_ he doesn't want to get out of it. And-"

"-you're late again, aye?" Killian finishes for her, tongue in cheek as he struggles to appear sympathetic.

And apparently he fails miserably because Emma just crosses her arms and glares at him. "Can you get the damn dog out of my car or not?"

As it turns out, he can. After a solid ten minutes of coaxing, that is.

Giving Cruiser a mild sedative prescribed specifically for such occurrences, Killian informs Emma that Mary Margaret and Dave ought to have more at home should the storm continue into the night. He also makes a mention of Cruiser's ThunderShirt, to which Emma looks supremely confused, and then sends her off to work with his strongest umbrella.

Standing there with his hair dripping water and his shirt plastered to his torso, Killian decides that it's days like this that he's thankful for tiled floors and scotch-guarded furniture.

 _ **Wednesday.**_

Emma isn't late.

Nor is she on time.

No, Wednesday she's early. _Arse-crack of dawn early._

He's awake, but only barely, nursing coffee while he sits in bed with his laptop, going through the bookings for the rest of the week.

The doorbell rings, the two dogs that stayed overnight start barking, and Killian wanders downstairs barefoot, deciding that his threadbare pyjama pants provide adequate enough coverage to greet whoever dares to rouse him at – he looks at the clock – 5:02am.

Opening the door, he finds Emma standing there, yawning, tray of coffee balanced in hand. Cruiser sits next to her, on his best behaviour.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this supremely early visit, Swan?" Killian asks, eyeing the takeout cups of Granny's coffee. It may be ungodly early, but at least it appears she took the possibility of waking him into account and brought a peace offering.

But before she can answer, the dogs in the back bark, and Cruiser lunges forward, barreling into the house. The leash rips from Emma's grasp, upsetting her still sleepy stance, and while Killian manages to steady her, the same cannot be said for the coffee.

Thankfully, the worst of the scalding liquid stains his front step and not his feet, but when Emma steps back, the first words that leave her mouth are not the ones he expects.

"You answer your door without a shirt on?" Her words are dry, almost biting, but Killian doesn't miss the way her eyes track appreciatively over his chest before hardening again.

"I do when I've been pulled from the warmth of my bed at an untimely hour. I'll have you know, Swan, business hours are from 7am 'til 7pm," he retorts lightly, but she must be tired enough or under-caffeinated enough that she misses the teasing tone in his voice.

"I know, I'm sorry, but I thought Mary Margaret told you that with David gone, my hours at the station might be-"

Killian cuts her off. "Aye, she did, I'm just-" He takes a breath. _Clearly it's too early for humour._ "It's of no consequence, love. I'd actually woken on my own already. Tell you what, you find that bloody mongrel and berate him for spilling Granny's finest. I've a fresh pot on upstairs, I'll fetch you a replacement."

When he returns, wearing a shirt this time, he finds Emma in the back, talking softly to Max, a hairy mop of an Old English Sheepdog, through the bars of his kennel. The dog has been shy, extremely subdued these last couple days, but now he stands, wagging his tail eagerly.

Emma leaves a few minutes later, borrowed travel mug full of coffee in her hand. Cruiser sits there with guilty eyes, Max eats an entire meal for the first time since arriving, and Killian has to wonder if maybe Emma Swan might just be a dog person after all.

 _ **Thursday.**_

Emma arrives at the same time as three of his other clients, and Killian barely has the chance to bid her a good morning before she's out the door and off to work. He's unexpectedly disappointed, because usually he loathes when clients hang around to make small talk.

Killian gets on well with Dave and Mary Margaret, actually enjoys their company, but for the most part, he maintains a business-like relationship with nearly everyone else in town.

It's been a long time since he's considered the possibility of more.

With four dogs attempting to braid their leashes together, Killian shakes his head and allows them to drag him through the house and toward the backyard. There's little sense in pining over someone who by all appearances, barely seems to tolerate him.

Unclipping the leashes one by one, Killian opens the back door. "Be free you foul smelling mutts!" he announces dramatically, unable to keep the smile from his lips. It may be messy and exhausting at times, but he really does love his job.

Cruiser heads straight for the plastic kiddie-pool, Pongo takes up the high ground on the doggy jungle gym, and Copper and Napoleon begin their usual routine of lapping the yard at high speed until one of them collapses from exhaustion.

Taking a seat in his favourite lawn chair, Killian turns on the radio, picks up a Frisbee, and tries to convince himself that he is absolutely _not_ going to spend the day thinking about Emma Swan.

 _ **Friday.**_

Emma comes and goes in much the same fashion as on Thursday morning, dropping Cruiser off without so much as a word.

He does receive a call from her part way through the day, but he's busy tending to Copper's cracked and blistered paws, so he doesn't make it to the phone in time.

After informing the young hound that he really ought to take it easy, Killian dials up his voicemail and listens to the message. _"Hey, so apparently Mary Margaret signed David up to help with some town fundraiser thing? I don't know. All I know is that he's not here, so Regina insists that I take his place. There's supposed to be face paint, and glitter, and-"_ She stops and calls to someone in the background. _"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming! Anyway, I don't know when I'll be done, but kids can't stay up too late, right?"_ She groans and he can practically hear her roll her eyes. _"Oh for the love of- I SAID I'LL BE THERE IN A SECOND! I've gotta go, sorry-"_

The message ends and the automated voice announces, "Friday, 2:22pm. End of messages. To delete this message, press 7. To save this message, press 9. To listen to this message again-"

Killian presses 4, his smile growing.

Emma doesn't show up until later that evening, pulling into his driveway just as the sun is about to set. He's outside with the remaining dogs, enjoying the last of a beautiful day, and when the doorbell rings, he simply calls her around to the backyard.

She comes bearing a slightly ridiculous amount of baking. There's glitter all over her clothes, swan wings painted around her eyes, and when he asks why she brought the food here, she admits that with David and Mary Margaret out of town, she didn't know who else to share it with.

The admission strikes a nerve, because he's also got a shortage of people in his life, and while he's grown used to that void, it pains him to think that this beautiful woman is equally alone. Perhaps that's what possesses him to do it – to offer her a beer and ask her to tell him about this fundraiser, because while usually he's content sitting out here alone with the dogs and his thoughts, tonight something in him longs for more.

He fully expects her to refuse, to take Cruiser and head home, because there's something in her eyes, an obvious reluctance, but after a moment's hesitation, she surprises him by plunking down into the chair next to his. "Fine," she says, scratching behind Max's ears when he ambles over, "but only one."

They talk about nothing of consequence for less than an hour, and by the time twilight clears the sky and the stars twinkle into view, the only evidence that she was ever there is the empty bottle on the patio, a Tupperware container full of sweets, and the lingering hint of cinnamon in the air.

 _ **Saturday.**_

Killian doesn't start daycare until 9am on Saturdays, but of course Emma doesn't know this.

So when his doorbell rings at quarter after seven and he looks out his window to see her bright yellow Bug parked in his driveway, he trots down the stairs and answers the door shirtless with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth.

He's already finished brushing his teeth, the toothbrush is really just there for effect, but the shocked and slightly sheepish look it provokes is completely worth it. "Morning, Swan. Come in before it rains," he insists, remaining in the doorway so that Emma is forced to squeeze past him, her shoulder brushing his chest.

A cold front is on its way in, the clouds over the ocean expanding, growing darker in the wake of a bright pink sunrise, and Killian imagines that the heavens might open at any moment. Closing the door against the still-humid breeze, he turns to face Emma and pulls the toothbrush from his mouth.

Emma looks him up and down with a raised eyebrow. "Is this-" she gestures to his shirtless state, "a regular occurrence? Do you enjoy walking around half-naked in front of women that you barely know? Or am I just special?"

And she started it, so he finishes it. "You most certainly are special, Swan. You know, I don't put up with just anyone, especially women I barely know, knocking at my door at all hours."

A lovely pink blush rises to her cheeks and she stammers slightly before thrusting Cruiser's leash into his hand. "Yeah, well…Mary Margaret gave you fair notice, so…I-"

She seems at a bit of a loss for words, so he takes pity on her and smiles reassuringly. "I imagine you've work to get to, people to protect, laws to uphold…donuts to consume?"

Emma snorts and rolls her eyes as she turns back toward the door. "I shouldn't be too late tonight. Leroy usually starts drinking just before noon on Saturdays, so-"

"-by supper you ought to have him all tucked away in his cell?" Killian finishes for her, and when Emma looks at him with surprise, he just shrugs. "That Leroy is a lush is hardly a secret. I've heard my fair share of stories from Dave over the years. Besides, life in a small town brings with it a glaring lack of privacy."

Opening the door, Emma looks out at the foreboding sky for a moment before glancing back at him. Her lips press together in a frown, but there's a curiosity in her eyes that no scowl can disguise. "Yet, I know next to nothing about you."

"Aye, Swan, and you're just as much of a mystery to me."

The door closes with a loud click, Cruiser whimpers as thunder rumbles ominously through the heavens, and Killian resigns himself to his fate.

Because try as he might, there's no getting Emma Swan off his mind.

The dinner hour rolls around, people pick up their dogs, but still, Emma doesn't show up. He wants to call her, to be certain that everything is all right, but he doesn't because it's not his place. She's probably just caught up with work.

Only Cruiser remains with him, and though Killian doesn't make such exceptions very often, he finds himself unlatching the kennel door and welcoming the German Shepherd upstairs into his apartment.

He's grown used to being alone in the years since his brother's death, since he left London and everyone in it behind for a fresh start in the States. But on nights like these, when the rain falls in a deafening roar against his roof and the wind wars with the thunder, the loneliness has a tendency to leech back into his bones.

Turning on the television, he pours himself a generous helping of rum and settles in next to Cruiser on the large sectional to wait.

 _ **Sunday.**_

Killian's doorbell chimes, drawing him from a fitful and rather uncomfortable slumber on the couch. Cruiser is curled up beside him, sleeping obliviously, and he cringes at the crick in his neck as the television screen plays some god-awful infomercial featuring a man named Bob who is far too excited about natural male enhancement. Reaching for the remote, he powers it off and glances at the time on the cable box. 4:23am.

The doorbell rings again, and Killian stands, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Kneading at the muscles in the back of his neck, he yawns and pads down the stairs to open the front door.

He's not sure what he was expecting. To be quite honest, he's not certain his still sleeping brain even considered the possibilities, but he takes one look at Emma, standing there in an oversized yellow rain slicker, and practically drags her in the door.

"Bloody hell, Swan, get in here. What happened?"

She looks like she's half asleep on her feet, and for a moment he wonders how she even managed to drive. Her hair is damp, frizzy and curling where it isn't covered by her hood, her jeans are soaked through, and her once black boots are now almost completely brown with splattered mud.

"Some kid got lost out in the national park bordering Storybrooke," Emma tells him as he nods for her to remove the slicker and her boots. "I was brought in to help coordinate search and rescue efforts. I wanted to call you, but my phone died, and I've spent most of the last thirteen hours trekking through the woods in the rain."

Killian helps her out of the slicker and leaves it hanging inside-out on the hook by the door as he ushers her toward the stairs. Her thin t-shirt is just as wet as her jeans, the outline of her bra visible through the fabric that clings to her breasts, and he forces himself to focus, because now is not the time to be noticing such things. He's not about to let her stand down here in the air conditioning shivering while he fetches Cruiser. Actually, he decides, he's not about to let her drive home – at least not until she's had some coffee or slept for an hour.

"We found the kid. He's fine," Emma continues, moving without complaint as he guides her up the stairs and into his apartment, "but I'm seriously starting to think that leash laws should be instated for kids like they are for dogs."

"I would back a bill citing mandatory obedience training for both," Killian jokes, but Emma doesn't seem to hear it because she's too busy taking in his apartment.

The space isn't large, but he's proud of it. It's a sort of modern cottage meets costal, comfortable without being too traditional. He has a view of the ocean and an open-concept floor plan, and though it's taken the entirety of the five years he's lived here, he's had a hand in completing each and every reno.

"This is nice," Emma says, sounding genuinely surprised. "It's not what I imagined."

The fact that she's entertained thoughts of what his living quarters might look like has Killian biting back a hopeful grin. "What? Had you assumed that I sleep in a kennel with the dogs?" he questions, attempting to come across as mildly upset even though he's anything but.

"No, of course not, I just-" Emma immediately begins to defend herself, but the look of apology slowly leaves her face and she frowns at him instead. "You're joking." She shakes her head. " _God_ , I need coffee. And food. I think I had a bagel at lunch?"

"You haven't eaten since noon? Yesterday?"

Emma bites her lip and shrugs. "I got busy."

"Wait there," Killian instructs, shaking his head as he disappears down the hall and into his bedroom. No wonder she looks as if she's half dead on her feet.

He pulls a clean sweater, flannel pyjama pants, and a thick pair of socks from his dresser before returning to the main living area and pressing them into her arms. "Bathroom is the first door on the right, go change; I'll make something to eat." Killian looks at the clock. It's after 4:30, the first hints of twilight already lightening the horizon. "How do you feel about strawberry pancakes?"

"What?"

"You should eat. Given the hour, breakfast seems logical."

Emma sighs, almost whining. "I just wanna go home and sleep."

Reaching for her slowly, gauging her reaction, Killian takes her shoulders and guides her in the direction of the hallway. "Change and then stay for half an hour, eat something, have a cup of coffee, then you may go once I'm certain you won't accidentally drive yourself into the ocean."

He looks back at the couch where Cruiser is watching the exchange with one eye barely open. "Besides, our friend over there doesn't appear to be in any great hurry."

Emma leans back just slightly against his chest as she follows his gaze, glaring at the dog as if he's somehow betrayed her. But the German Shepherd simply yawns, stretches, and rolls comically onto his back before closing his eyes completely.

" _Fine_ ," she relents, stalking off to the bathroom, "but those better be fresh strawberries."

They are, and Killian makes quick work of whipping up the batter while the coffee brews. Emma lingers in the bathroom for longer than he expects, and he almost wonders if he should have mentioned that she could shower if she wished.

When she emerges, she's adorably swamped by his clothing, her hair in a bun and her face scrubbed clean. Pressing a mug of coffee into her reaching hands, he nods toward the couch, trying desperately not to imagine her in one of his t-shirts and little else.

Returning to the kitchen before he can burn the pancakes, he manages instead to burn his tongue on too-hot coffee. And if it weren't for the blonde currently curled up on his couch, looking as if she belongs there, Killian might just be able to blame his incompetence on the early hour.

They eat on the couch, watching the sky grow bright as the sun creeps toward the horizon, and Killian notes that once she relaxes, Emma isn't nearly as uptight as he originally pegged her to be.

Killian shares the adventures of Duke "the destroyer", including the time last summer when the menace of a dog managed to somehow knock his entire patio door off the tracks and free from the frame. Insurance had covered the repairs, but several crickets found their way into the house, and it was autumn before he slept a night without chirping ringing in his ears.

Emma highlights Leroy's greatest hits, focusing in hilarious detail on an incident during karaoke night last month. A disagreement came to punches when Leroy tired of Will Scarlet butchering the classics. There was a rather filthy rendition of _My Heart Will Go On_ , and as soon as her phone is charged, Emma promises to send him the video.

By the time the sun has risen, Emma has slouched even further on the couch and is nursing a second cup of coffee while he tidies the kitchen. He's quite surprised that she hasn't left yet, that she still sits there next to Cruiser with her feet tucked between the cushions. He's not about to complain, though, because it's the first time he's spent a morning in the company of another human in far too long, and briefly, he wonders if the same holds true for her.

With the kitchen clean, he tells her that he's just going to pop downstairs to grab Cruiser's kibble, but by the time he returns, she's fast asleep on the couch, empty coffee mug dangling precariously from her fingers.

Gently freeing the mug from Emma's grasp, he sets it in the sink, closes the blinds, and quietly covers her with a blanket. Something that sounds a lot like his name passes her lips as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and Cruiser seems content where he is, so Killian leaves him be and heads into his bedroom to change and wash up.

Emma still sleeps soundly when he emerges, and her presence there, snoring softly on his couch, is something that up until this moment, he had no idea he wanted so badly. Standing at the top of the stairs, he takes a deep breath, closes the door behind him, and heads down below to start his day.

But when he finally manages a break just before noon, Killian doesn't have to head upstairs to know that Emma is gone. Her ridiculous yellow Bug is absent from his driveway, her boots are no longer falling over by the door, and when the rest of the day passes and he doesn't so much as receive a text from her, he has to wonder if maybe he read far too much into nothing.

-x- -x- -x-

Monday passes in chaos, consistently his busiest day of the week, but thankfully on Tuesday, Belle returns from vacation. It's the first day Killian has really been able to leave the house in a week, and after a much needed trip to the grocery store, he drops in at the police station on a whim, hoping to see Emma.

She's nowhere in sight, though, David the only one present in the quiet building. Covering his disappointment, Killian forces a smile to his lips and does his best to listen while Dave recounts the events of his west coast honeymoon.

Killian wants to ask the sheriff when his deputy will be in next, but has no clue how to broach the subject with a man who by all accounts views Emma as his younger sister. Instead, he offers his congratulations again and excuses himself, saying that he'd better get his groceries into the fridge.

Tuesday evening he sits alone in the backyard without so much as a dog for company, his overnight schedule suddenly and depressingly clear. Nursing a quickly warming beer, he finishes off the last of the cookies from the fundraiser. And this time when the sun sets, all he smells in the ocean air, not the slightest hint of cinnamon to be had.

On Wednesday Killian leaves the business in Belle's capable hands once more. He tells her that he needs to make a trip out of town to the nearest Costco. They're running low on dog food, laundry detergent, and floor cleaner. Plus the vacuum's just about had it and he really should replace it.

They're all perfectly logical reasons, but the real one, the one he barely wants to admit to himself, is that a morning without Emma at his door just isn't really a morning he wants to face.

The day looks up, though, when he runs into Mary Margaret while on his way back to his car in the Costco parking lot. Asking Dave about Emma might be out of the question, but Killian's fairly certain Mary Margaret will be much more open to such a discussion.

He's sure to engage in polite conversation first, asking Mary Margaret about her honeymoon before mentioning Cruiser and using the dog to segue into discussion of Emma. "How has our delightful Swan been? I've yet to see her around town the last few days."

"Oh, David gave her some time off as a thank you for holding down the fort while we were away. We didn't talk much before she left to go visit an old college friend down in Boston, but I know she was looking forward to the break after being so swamped last week," Mary Margaret explains and then shakes her head. "I keep trying to convince him to hire another deputy, but he's always on about keeping it in the family."

"Family?" Killian asks, confused. There's a certain resemblance there, but as far as he knows, Dave and Emma aren't actually brother and sister.

"Yep, Ruth, David's mother, was a foster mother to Emma for a few years until she turned eighteen." Mary Margaret pauses, comprehension dawning on her face. "You didn't know?"

Killian shakes his head.

"I thought everyone knew."

"Aye, well alas, I've never been much of a gossip. Afraid I fail at small-town life in that respect." Rubbing at the back of his neck, Killian almost loses his grip on his shopping cart. "So, you said Emma has some time off. Do you know…do you have any idea when she'll be back to work?"

 _Smooth, you sodding git, real smooth._

" _Killian_ ," Mary Margaret says slowly, in that way she does when she knows someone is keeping a secret, "does this have something to do with the fact that half the town saw Emma's Bug parked in your driveway for most of Sunday morning?"

Killian scoffs, going for sarcastic. "I am almost positive that half the town doesn't pass my house on a daily basis."

"Well," Mary Margaret sing-songs, "half the town knows."

"And just what precisely do the nosy buggers think they know?"

The pixie-haired teacher laughs as if it should be obvious. "Everyone thinks you're sleeping together, of course."

"Oh bloody hell." Killian scrubs at his face with both hands, actually losing his grip on his shopping cart this time.

Mary Margaret grabs hold of it before it can roll away, though, regarding him expectantly. "Well?"

"What?"

"Are you?"

"No."

She hums in thought, her smile growing until it spreads almost clear across her face. "But you'd like to. Is that why you're asking?"

No part of him wants to have this discussion in a Costco parking lot, but he's in the hole now – he's going to have to climb his way out somehow. Popping the hatch on his car, he starts loading his purchases. "No. I mean – that's not why I'm asking. I don't _just_ want to sleep with her." Honesty is the best policy, right?

He groans and throws a bag of dog food with far too much force. It hits the back of the driver's seat with a loud thud, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as he turns back to face his patiently waiting friend. "Buggering hell, are we actually discussing this?"

"It's all right to like her, Killian," Mary Margaret reassures. "I actually happen to think you'd be good for each other."

Releasing a heavy breath, Killian fiddles with his keys. "Perhaps, but she left without a word Sunday morning."

Mary Margaret's left eyebrow threatens to disappear into her hair, and Killian knows that she's about three seconds from requesting a more detailed telling of events.

"I promise. We _did not_ sleep together. Work kept her late, search party for a lost kid. She showed up dead on her feet at some ungodly hour, and I refused to let her drive home when she could barely keep her eyes open. She was soaked through from the rain and hadn't eaten since lunch, so I gave her some clothes to change into and made her breakfast. Shortly after that she fell asleep on my couch. I went downstairs to work, and she disappeared without a word some time before lunch."

Mary Margaret nods. "That was probably because she offered to pick us up at the airport just before one and was running late. I don't know if you've noticed, but that's kind of her thing."

"Aye, it's rather impossible not to."

And while Killian supposes that it's a logical reason for not saying goodbye before leaving, he still wishes she'd at least have sent him a text or left him a note. He's still waiting on that video of Will and Leroy from karaoke night, too.

He shakes his head. "Whatever the case, I need to see her," Killian insists. "Over the course of the last week, she's managed to abscond with my best umbrella, my favourite travel mug, and several articles of clothing."

Holding her side, Mary Margaret laughs brightly at that. "Welcome to life with Emma Swan! If you get those back, can you also ask her for the boots she borrowed three years ago, the assortment of Tupperware I've leant her, and about two dozen books that I've promised to members of my book club?"

Killian raises his eyebrows. "Propensity for thievery?"

"More like perpetual forgetfulness."

Placing the new vacuum cleaner gently in the car – it wouldn't do to break it before he even gets it home – he closes the hatch and offers his now empty cart to Mary Margaret. "I'll do my best." He sighs. His hopes aren't high.

"Killian?"

"Aye?"

"Emma's back at work tomorrow morning, her friend in Boston is a girl, and if you show up with a bear claw and a hot chocolate, whipped cream and cinnamon on top, I can personally guarantee that she won't say no."

-x- -x- -x-

Thursday morning dawns bright and early, and Killian is waiting at Granny's before the lights are even on. That alone earns him an odd enough look, but when he orders three bear claws, two coffees, and a hot chocolate complete with whipped cream and cinnamon, the perplexed look on Granny's face turns into a knowing one instead.

And when she hands him two separate takeout bags and trays, it's with an unmistakable and slightly disturbing wink.

 _Bloody small-town gossip._

The bell chimes behind him as he leaves, and three short minutes later, Killian is striding into the police station.

Dave regards him brightly when he sets his sights on Granny's takeout, but Killian doesn't stop to talk, just drops the single coffee and bear claw on the man's desk before making a beeline for Emma.

If she's shocked to see him, it fades quickly as she reaches greedily for the bag he brought.

He hands her the hot chocolate first, and when she removes the lid, she looks up at him, clearly surprised. "Mary Margaret?"

He nods. "Aye."

"What else have you got there?"

He holds open the bag and allows her to select the bigger bear claw. She takes a bite and licks the sugar from her lips before pouting. "I mean, I'm not _really_ complaining, but no homemade pancakes?"

"Not today, love." He grins. "You see, as it so happens, you're a bit of a thief, and I'll be requesting my belongings back before I'm feeling generous enough to whip up another gourmet breakfast."

Emma takes another bite and smirks around the mouthful. "I'll see what I can do."

Killian doesn't linger, just picks up his coffee and the remaining bear claw and nods at an extremely confused David on his way out the door.

The day passes quickly, even Duke is remarkably well behaved, and later that evening when he answers his door, it's to Emma wearing the sweater he lent her.

Extending her arms, she proceeds to shove the rest of his belongings at his chest. "Consider this me returning your crap," she states with a perfectly straight face.

He raises an eyebrow and sets everything aside on the desk. "You still appear to be in possession of my sweater, Swan." It's a sight he could certainly get used to, though he doesn't tell her that.

Emma tilts her head as if considering something. "How about you invite me in? If I'm in your house, then technically it's not stolen, is it?"

"I suppose I can't fault that logic." Stepping aside, Killian waves her in and closes the door behind her, at a bit of a loss for how to proceed next because a part of him wasn't expecting her to actually show up. "So…"

And his uncertainty must amuse her, because the slightest hint of grin brightens her face. "So," she echoes, her smile growing, "pancakes?"


End file.
